


Revelation

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Series: Encounter [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he's forgotten about tonight. Or he could be busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Разоблачение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738096) by [fridaypm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridaypm/pseuds/fridaypm), [soames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soames/pseuds/soames)



> I'd like to point out that this is slightly cracky and definitely not smutty enough.

As soon as John realises that the window doesn't stand ajar as it usually does, he knows something must be going on. This hasn't happened before.

Frowning, John carefully knocks at the glass, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible while making enough noise to alert Sherlock. Maybe the other man has just forgotten about it?

The flat, however, stays dark and silent, even after another, more distinct round of knocking. Squinting through the window, John can't see any movement or light. Clearly, Sherlock isn't there or doesn't want to be seen.

John's heart sinks when he considers that this might be Sherlock's roundabout way to blow off their little _arrangement_ , to tell him that he's no longer welcome in his flat. But in the last two months, John has started to get to know the man a bit better than that. If Sherlock were unhappy he'd just go ahead and say.

This leaves another, even more chilling possibility: something might have happened.

Turning around and climbing down the fire escape on the back of the building, John tries to stay calm and be reasonable.

 _It could be nothing_ , he thinks, carefully jumping off the metal stairs at the bottom, deftly landing on the concrete. _Maybe he's forgotten about tonight. Or he could be busy._

But none of those scenarios seem very likely when it comes to Sherlock.

There hasn't been that much talking - their arrangement is mostly about the mind-blowing sex - but in the aftermath, John has stayed longer than strictly necessary to take care of Sherlock and make sure he hasn't been hurt or injured in any way. Some of the things they do in the bedroom are more than just a bit rough, but Sherlock has always been attentive and has clearly outlined boundaries and rules.

John knows Sherlock really isn't the type to simply forget about tonight. He usually knows exactly what he's doing. If something important had come up, he would have left some kind of message, a note at the window maybe.

The thought that something might have happened to his - well - sexual partner makes John's stomach churn uncomfortably.

They're not exactly committed to each other, they're not really in a relationship, but eight weeks of the best sex in your life can do _things_ to you. Sherlock not being home when he has asked John to come by in particular is disconcerting at least.

When he sets foot on the pavement on Baker Street, John stands close to the building Sherlock's living in, feeling unsure what to do. He could go home and come back tomorrow, writing it off as mere forgetfulness on Sherlock's part. Or he could just go and ring, at least for confirmation that Sherlock isn't at home, though John has never officially entered Sherlock's flat before.

In case Sherlock has simply done something stupid, like blown himself up in that Frankenstein lab of his, he might still be in the flat, needing help. John has been down in the kitchen several times now, fetching things or getting a drink while making Sherlock wait upstairs. He's seen the pieces of human bodies happily floating in all kinds of chemicals so maybe, John's theory isn't that far off.

Sherlock's landlady should be home. She might even be willing to let him in.

Taking a determined breath, John walks up the street and to the door. He hasn't once used the proper door. So far, it has always been the window. For a few seconds, his hand hesitates above the door bell, thinking that really, he's entered more houses and flats in his life uninvited than not. Shaking his head ever so slightly, John rings.

Naturally, there's no reaction to Sherlock's door bell so after a few minutes of anxious waiting, John uses the other button for the lower flat.

It doesn't take long and the door is being opened by an older woman whose face looks slightly familiar. John remembers watching her and Sherlock, back when 221B had been just another flat to break into. It's different now. John tries to smile at her, feeling worried and nervous.

"Hello? How can I help you?"

Sherlock's landlady looks only a tad suspicious and mostly friendly, but is clearly determined to shut the door in case she doesn't like John's explanation. Undoubtedly, living in a city like London has made her thick-skinned about door-to-door salesmen and the likes.

"I'm sorry to disturb you like this but - is Sherlock at home?"

She gives him a once-over, but doesn't seem to be judging him by his rather dubious appearance.

"You're a client? I'm sorry, but Sherlock hasn't been home since yesterday afternoon."

John nods, stomach dropping a bit. Only in the very back of his mind, he wonders what sorts of _clients_ seek out Sherlock on such a regular basis that his landlady would know about it.

"Did he say anything?" he asks, sounding worried even to his own ears. "Did he have an important appointment maybe?"

She shakes her head, brow furrowing in thought.

"I don't think so. He did tell me he was going out but not where or why. He does that, though. Always up and about, Sherlock is." She looks at him in what seems to be pity. "You don't look very well, dear. Is it that important? Maybe you should call the police if it really cannot wait?"

John stares at her.

"The police?" he asks. For one insane second he thinks the woman knows he's a criminal.

She nods, however, as if his response has been expected and answer enough.

"Oh, not a perfectly legal matter then, is it? Don't worry, Sherlock will surely help you out regardless. He's helped me with my husband, you know? Tweaking the facts a bit to make sure it all works out."

John doesn't know what she's on about, but tries to focus on the fact that Sherlock hasn't been home since last afternoon. That's over 24 hours without informing his landlady and without leaving a note for John, so he must have planned to be home much earlier. Definitely not good.

"In case he's back - could you tell him John's been looking for him and that I'll be back?" he asks her.

"John? Even our dear Sherlock will need at least your last name to find you in London. Let me fetch something to write on and you can give me your number."

"No, that's really not necessary. He'll know. He knows me. Thank you, Mrs--?"

"Hudson, dear, I'm Mrs Hudson. I'll tell him once he's back, all right?"

John leaves Baker Street with a rather sick feeling in his stomach. Mrs Hudson seemed mostly unconcerned about Sherlock's disappearance but he's a grown man so why should she worry? After all, she doesn't know Sherlock hasn't once missed one of their meetings so far. And what's the whole talk about clients anyway?

As he walks towards the underground station nearby, John's eyes catch sight of a 24h internet café. Sherlock and John still know nothing much about each other, other than their first names and the obvious things, like John's criminal background and Sherlock's love for science. Sherlock still hasn't seen John's face, either, always making sure the blindfold is safely in place before John enters his room.

Maybe it's time to do some research after all, to find out about Sherlock's last name at least. John could contact some of his friends, could tell them to keep their eyes and ears open. In case Sherlock has been mugged or caught up in something bigger, they'd know. John knows Sherlock's family has got some money. Maybe, they're being blackmailed?

Of course, calling the police isn't an option. John avoids the coppers as much as possible.

 _Maybe I'm just so horny I can't think straight,_ he thinks, trying to ease the worry he's feeling, but it doesn't help.

In the end, John crosses the street and enters the café, determined to find out what's going on.

Most of the money he's made from Sherlock's things has been spent on rent and fixing the flat up a bit, but John has broken into some other flats since to pay for food and the like. Rummaging through his trouser pockets, he finds a few fifty pence pieces and claims one of the computers in the far back.

He's not good with the whole technology business, but he knows how to check on flats, back alleys and possible exit routes over the internet when he needs to. Cursor hovering over the empty text box of the search engine, John contemplates.

 _Sherlock_ isn't a very common name and if he's got something like clients in the London area, John's sure he'll find at least something about him on the net. John wonders what kind of business Sherlock's up to? Maybe some non-official forensic work, if the severed fingers in the fridge are anything to go by? That'd fit with Mrs Hudson assuring him that Sherlock wouldn't mind helping him out with something more illegal.

John tries not to feel too silly when typing Sherlock - 221B, Baker Street, London into the text box.

Expecting the first few websites to be something like the _White Pages_ , he's surprised to see that the first hit is actually a website called _The Science of Deduction_.

In the span of ten minutes, John learns that for the last two months, he, John Watson, a criminal virtually for most of his life, has been shagging Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and helpful partner to the Met.

John doesn't know whether or not he should find the irony incredibly funny.

He's heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course. Not his name per se, but that there's _someone_ on the streets going after the murderers and more interesting criminals. As the rumors had said the man was practically uninterested in the more petty criminals like John, he hadn't paid much attention to the gossip.

Staring at Sherlock's declaration that he could identify airline pilots by their thumbs, John swallows. Two things have become quite clear: one, John has been one lucky bastard that Sherlock prefers bondage sex with strangers over calling up his friends at Scotland Yard and two, Sherlock being in some kind of major trouble is actually very, _very_ likely.

He's probably gone and challenged the bloody Mafia or something along those lines.

Leaving the café, John decides to work out just what has happened to Sherlock. And he knows exactly where to start.  
____

The pub is shabby, smoky and rather full, which is to be expected on a weekend night.

Most of the closed-off and furrowed faces, John knows. They're all rather shady characters in here - street vendors, pickpockets, muggers, dealers - that have lost any hope or desire to get out of the quagmire that is crime.

John understands.

He doesn't know what he'll do once he's too old to climb up the back of buildings and he doesn't want to think about it too much either. As most of the others, he's tried with real jobs and education and failed to build himself one of those _proper_ lives normal people seem to enjoy so much.

Pushing the gloomy thoughts aside, John drops down on a chair at the bar when he spots the face he's been looking for.

Waving at the barkeeper who knows John well enough to simply nod and pull a glass from a shelf nearby, John turns to the slumped form of a man sitting on his right. His smudged and stubbly face is mostly obscured by a rather threadbare scarf and the high collar of his dark jacket.

"Gary," John greets him.

He gets a grunt in response which is the friendliest greeting anyone will ever get out of Gary. The man either likes you or he doesn't. If he likes you, Gary can come in quite handy. If he doesn't, you better stay away from him. As shabby as he looks, the man has some of the best connections in the London area. Gary has _friends_.

"What d' _you_ want?"

Observant green eyes examine him from the side as John accepts his way-too-cheap whiskey with a thankful nod.

"I'm looking for someone," John replies, not bothering to beat around the bush.

Gary makes a noise that could be a snort of amusement.

"Someone, eh? I know plenty of someones. Got to be a bit more specific than that."

John grimaces at the taste of his drink, but it brings some warmth into his upset stomach. John isn't used to worrying this much. Worrying doesn't make you money or food appear on the table.

"You've heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

Gary actually raises his head a bit, scarf slipping to expose his nose. Clearly, he's more interested in the matter than before.

"It's true then?"

John raises his eyebrows at him, licking his lips in anticipation.

"What's true?"

Gary shrugs, but John isn't fooled. Gary's curious and Gary likes to be informed. First-hand data is the best kind, of course.

"Have been hearing things. You sneaking about Baker Street."

John nods carefully.

"Who's told you that?" he asks, honestly interested in who's watching him - or Sherlock's flat, more likely.

"Friend of mine."

John's grin is all teeth.

"Of course."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, the noise of the busy pub brushing over them. Gary is thinking. And rushing Gary when he's thinking doesn't get you anywhere, John knows that from experience.

"I would've warned you, you know? Holmes' flat. Bloody insane."

John laughs a dry laugh.

"I should've listened to the gossip some more," he agrees, reminding himself once more how lucky he is that Sherlock didn't turn him in.

"Doesn't matter now, does it? Seems you two're having fun."

John hides his flushing cheeks by quickly downing the rest of his drink in one go. Gary only chuckles.

"Nobody knows, don't you worry. Bloody brave you are, though." He pauses, then lowers his voice. "Holmes's been poking his nose into some nasty business."

Pushing the empty glass away, John leans towards Gary in order to be able to hear what the man is willing to tell him.

"He's clever but reckless. Got some brother with the government who helps him out sometimes. Scary man, he is. Don't know why he hasn't shown yet. Probably doesn't know where to look for him."

John swallows, taking in all the information he's being given.

"Where is he?" he asks, eying Gary carefully.

"Franko's gang."

John's eyes widen and he covers up his rather loud noise of surprise with a fake cough. Gary shakes his head in some form of bitter amusement, but John can't really focus on him right now.

Franko's gang. Sherlock sure doesn't do anything by halves, does he?

"The Black House?" John eventually speaks up, a ridiculous plan forming in his head.

Gary actually gapes at him, scarf falling off his face for good and exposing a rather angry-looking scar on his chin.

"You're not going," he says, though it sounds like a question rather than a command.

Some part of John wants to agree with him. He really shouldn't be considering this at all. Franko's gang is big, brutal and influential. You don't go against him unless you've got even more influence than him. The man could crush John like a nasty bug if he ever felt like it.

But Sherlock's with him, has been with him for over a day in fact, and nobody but John knows. At least, nobody who gives a damn about Sherlock's well-being.

"Of course I am. It's been over _a day_ , Gary."

Gary gives him an incredulous stare and mumbles something that sounds a lot like _Bloody bonkers._

"The Black House," he confirms eventually, pulling his scarf back over his nose. "Careful, all right? Don't feel like giving a funeral speech."

John gives him a grim smile.

"Don't worry. Just getting him out. Franko won't even know."

Gary's only reply is another grunt.

____

Every criminal in London probably knows where to find Franko, most likely to be able and avoid him and his gang as much as humanly possible. The Black House isn't as much a house but a warehouse. Its roof has burned down once and some of the foundation walls are still sooty, hence the name.

It's quite dark out now which is perfect cover for John. There are two, rather dangerous looking thugs looming near the main entrance of the building but luckily, Franko doesn't need patrols walking around the thing. His reputation is a far better defence than a group of hooligans could ever be. Nobody is stupid enough to try and break into The Black House.

Well, nobody except John.

Avoiding the front, John sneaks around the building, checking the windows and entrances with an expert's eye. There aren't many weak points and the few he finds are either too risky to pursue or might make tons of noise.

The last thing John wants is to alert anybody. The best outcome would be Sherlock and him vanishing from the building without being seen or heard, though John isn't delusional. He's quite willing to simply find Sherlock, get that infamous brother's phone number and let _him_ deal with it, if he's really as influential as Gary has said.

That means, of course, that Sherlock should still be conscious enough (or alive) to do so.

In the end, it's just a lucky coincidence. John is lurking in the shadows, carefully trying one of the air vents in the very back of the building, when close to him, one of the locked metal doors is opened from the inside. A man, rather as thug-like as the ones at the front of the warehouse, steps out and away from the door, leaving it open. John's fairly sure he's close to invisible where he's standing and watches the bloke walk some twenty-something steps, approaching a wall.

A bit late John realises what the man is up to. He's taking a piss.

Thanking whatever deity has decided to aid him, John sneaks into the building after making sure the hallway inside is empty, ignoring the voice in his head that tells him that this is the stupidest idea in the history of ideas.

The first fifteen minutes are actually rather uneventful as John aimlessly sneaks down hallway after hallway and peaks into rooms that look mostly unused or abandoned. He seems to have entered the building in the far back where there aren't any important things going on. Being lulled into a false sense of security, John nearly doesn't hear the voices floating up to him.

He peaks around the corner and sees two men fast approaching, murmuring to each other. Eyes widening, John panics and leans back against the wall, trying to keep calm. He's a burglar, yes, a damn good one at that, but small flats of law-abiding citizens aren't remotely similar to gang headquarters. And the hallway John has last used doesn't have any open rooms to hide in for at least two or three minutes worth of walking.

This is it then. His only chance is to run and hope the men don't see him. He's just about to do just that when the shouting starts.

It seems far away, but John can hear the men that have been approaching turn and run back, feet slapping against the floor and echoing through the hallways. Taking deep breaths, John thinks fast.

Clearly, there's something going on that is distracting Franko's people. John could leave but that really isn't an option, is it? He's here and he hasn't found Sherlock yet and running away would be cowardly.

Naturally, John goes and follows the shouting instead of leaving while he still can. He briefly wonders if this is the same kind of reckless stupidity that made him enter Sherlock's room for the first time.

In the end, John thinks, it's rather like in a bad film. There's some sort of commotion going on so all of Franko's men (and women, John notices from far away) are running towards it, leaving the hostage behind in a room that isn't even locked.

As soon as he spots a familiar set of long legs, John enters the room and quickly closes the door behind him.

Sherlock looks surprisingly well for having been held hostage for over 24 hours by one of the most feared gangs in London. He's tied to a chair, ankles bound to the legs of the piece of furniture and wrists tied together behind the backrest. There's crusted blood in his hair, probably from where he's been knocked out by something blunt, and a nice arrangement of bruises over his bare chest. He's still wearing his trousers but for whatever reason, his shirt has been removed, exposing the damage that has been done.

Sherlock is conscious. Sherlock is also blind-folded.

John can't help but let out a short, awkward laugh at the familiarity of the sight.

Sherlock's head snaps up immediately. From the surprised look on his half-covered face, John can easily tell the moment Sherlock recognises John's voice.

"John," he states.

"Sherlock," John replies.

Sherlock smirks, actually smirks and shifts a bit in his chair.

"You're not working with Franko."

It's not a question. Sherlock is voicing a fact.

John shakes his head to himself, moving a bit closer in order to get started on the restraints - also way to familiar. John is temped to do some relieved kissing and groping right there and then, but whatever the still on-going shouting is about, it's probably not going to last very long. Certainly not long enough to take advantage of the situation.

When has John become such a damn pervert anyway?

"No, I'm not," John agrees, kneels down in front of Sherlock and starts working on the ropes around the man's ankles.

"You're lucky they've all run towards the main entrance like the bunch of baboons they are," Sherlock tells him, still smirking.

"Hmm. We've got to hurry up. I don't know what's going on but I sure as hell didn't cause it."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, don't worry. It's Mycroft's doing, no doubt."

As if on cue, the door of the room is being opened once more. John jerks in surprise, head turning to see who's entering. Two men in black clothes immediately come at him, grab his arms and pull him to his feet and away from Sherlock.

Seeing that any kind of struggle is probably useless, John watches as another man, this one in an elegant suit and, oddly enough, an umbrella in his hand enters the room, a gorgeous woman with long brown hair and a BlackBerry in her hand by his side.

"There you are, Sherlock," he says and those few words seem to scream _posh bastard_ right into John's ears. "Can't you keep out of trouble for once?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, still blind-folded but somehow managing to glare at the man anyway. "What has taken you this long?"

Mycroft (apparently) sighs and motions at one of the men, currently holding John in a death grip, to move and free Sherlock.

"As much as I'm flattered by your misconceptions, even _I_ cannot simply go and rush into a well-known criminal's headquarters to rescue you."

He turns toward the woman, seemingly having a silent conversation with her as she nods and starts typing out a message on her phone without speaking up. With a nod, Mycroft's eyes focus on John, eyebrows arching as he speaks.

"Ah. John," he says, as if he'd known him for years and met him in the park on a nice, warm Sunday by mere coincidence.

John eyes him suspiciously.

"Do we know each other?" he asks, realising it sounds quite rude and not caring one bit about it.

On his chair, Sherlock chuckles lowly, clearly amused by John's tone of voice.

"No, though _I_ know _you_ , which is quite enough I'd say. A bit out of your league, this particular break-in, wasn't it, Mr Watson?"

John only gapes at him. Where the hell did the man get his last name from? John idly wonders what kind of person would have the ability and resources to take over Franko's headquarters and know everything about a person they've never even met.

"Though I must thank you", Mycroft continues, voice ever-so pleasant. "Without your little investigation, it might have taken me another four hours to figure out just where Sherlock has run off to. You can let him go."

The last words are clearly meant for the man still holding John's other arm in a death-grip and John immediately takes a step away from him once he's released, rubbing his upper arms to ease some of the pain caused by the rough handling.

"Not exactly how you show your gratitude," he mutters, turning to look at Sherlock who's clearly been freed by now.

Sherlock, who is no longer wearing a blind-fold.

John has only seen Sherlock without one from afar, back when he was still figuring out how to get into the flat in the first place. He isn't prepared for the intense, observing gaze he is receiving. Sherlock's pale eyes are all but _roaming_ over John's entire body and he gets the distinct feeling he's being undressed by a mere look.

Involuntarily, he feels heat tingle on his cheek. For the bloody second time today. John wonders if he'll ever be able to hide those intense eyes behind fabric again if that is what they're doing to him.

"You've come after me," Sherlock tells him, a pleased little smile on those gorgeous lips. John wonders if there's something wrong with him, as he still finds Sherlock attractive with blood in his hair and bruises all over his naked chest. "I must say I didn't think you would. You _surprise_ me, John."

For some reason, the last words sound like the biggest of compliments, and the way Sherlock's silky voice is now teamed-up with that _look_ \- John can't help but lick his lips when pleasant memories are fighting for dominance in his mind.

"Could you save this for somewhere appropriate and more private, _please_?"

Mycroft, rolling his eyes a bit, gestures towards the door in an exasperated manner. Somewhere in the distance, there's definitely some more fighting going on.

"We should be going. My team will deal with this lot."

Which is how John finds himself in the back of the most expensive car he's ever entered, legs pressed lightly against Sherlock's, on his way back to Baker Street. John has given Sherlock his jacket which is now loosely hanging from the other man's naked shoulders.

"So," he eventually breaks the silence. Mycroft, who of course turned out to be Sherlock's influential brother, has left with his assistant to do whatever it is that they normally do, leaving the two of them alone in the car. "Consulting detective, huh?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies easily, one of his hands resting carelessly on John's thigh. "I must say I was surprised when you didn't show any reaction to my introducing myself. It's not a very usual first name."

John laughs.

"Well, I was a bit distracted, wasn't I?" he answers in a low voice and the hand on his thigh tightens briefly.

"Indeed," Sherlock tells him, then bows down to press his lips against John's in a fierce, passionate kiss.

A battle of tongues ensues but this time, unlike during the many other encounters in the bedroom, Sherlock dominates and thoroughly kisses John until the latter's head is spinning.

When they arrive at Baker Street, they hardly make it to the bedroom.

There's no leather restraints or plugs or gags this time, just two men exploring each other's bodies as if their lives depended on it. Sherlock's hands are seemingly everywhere as he kisses John's chest, his neck, his jaw.

"Hm, John," he murmurs, breath hot and moist against John's right ear. "So very interesting. Extraordinary. _Unpredictable._ "

The voice sends shivers down John's entire body and his hands curl around Sherlock's back. He's mindful of the bruises, but unable to cut back on the light but passionate scratches as he catches Sherlock's mouth in another, rather sloppy kiss, one hand sneaking down to grab the man's arse.

"Why didn't you... tell on me?" John asks breathlessly as Sherlock explores a scar on John's left shoulder, where a knife has once struck him in a petty little street fight, tongue brushing over the uneven tissue over and over.

"Boring," Sherlock replies and curls his hand around John's cock, eyes never leaving John's.

Later, when they're lying next to each other on the bed, both sticky and panting and Sherlock's hair as bloody as before, Sherlock speaks up again, voice a bit hazy and deep and utterly _sexy_.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John lazily opens one eye to look at Sherlock out of the very corner.

"Hm?" he hums, stretching a bit, hand brushing against Sherlock's in the process.

"The violin, John. Sometimes, I play it early in the morning or in the middle of the night. Would that bother you?"

John wonders if he's understanding the implications of this right or if post-coital bliss has eaten the last of his remaining brain cells. John really hopes it's the former.

"Can't say it does," he replies easily. "Though I guess if it did I could just tie you to the bed."

He rolls over swiftly, propping himself up right over Sherlock's abused chest, one of his thumbs brushing over the bruises delicately. Sherlock stares up at him with those intense, pale eyes of his and John is fairly sure Sherlock means exactly what John thinks he does.

"I could spank you with the bow if you don't behave," he whispers and Sherlock starts shivering pleasantly.

"Interesting notion," he replies, eyes bright.

John leans down, tips of their noses brushing ever so slightly as he catches Sherlock's bottom lip, nibbling at it until it's red and swollen.

"You're very reckless, Sherlock. Quite a naughty boy, really. You'd need _lots_ of punishment, wouldn't you? And someone who's there, day after day, to administer it."

Sherlock eyes flutter close, one leg curling around John's behind.

"Oh _God_ yes," he whispers.

This time, John thinks, he really should go and look for the restraints again.  



End file.
